


Silver and Gold

by Strange and Intoxicating -rsa- (strangeandintoxicating)



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Akechi's an asshole, Anal Sex, Angst, But we all know he's topping from the bottom, M/M, Major Canon Character "death", Rough Sex, Roughness, Unrequited Love, We all know the truth, bottom!Akechi, persona 5 royal spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25656157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandintoxicating/pseuds/Strange%20and%20Intoxicating%20-rsa-
Summary: Sumire knew that she didn't belong here.A poor girl, trapped in a world of her own making. A prince charming, just out of reach. A monster, teeth bared against her throat.A dark February night, a cake, and jazz music covering the sounds of something...else.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, Kurusu Akira/Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi (one-sided)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 191





	Silver and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> I've had a complicated relationship with my love and hate for Akechi. I feel like a lot of people miss the fact that he's a fucking monster, but I think he's also human and deeply, deeply fucked up from everything that happened to him.
> 
> Do I think he's redeemed? No. 
> 
> Do I think he _can_ be redeemed? Not really. 
> 
> He's not a good person. He's not even a likable person. But fuck if he isn't a fascinating character and I absolutely love writing someone so far gone and watching him drag everyone else down with him. And Akira is, stupidly, the one who is dragged the farthest down.

Sumire knew that she didn't belong here. 

Considering everything that had happened when she tried to confess her feelings to Akira, how he had been so _kind_ and _selfless_ as she poured out her heart and soul and _still_ said no, Sumire knew there was someone else. 

It made logical sense, afterall— Akira Kurusu was a ladies’ man, and almost every single girl in Shujin Academy, along with all of the Phantom Thieves girls (and even Yusuke, from the way he stared longingly at Joker in the depths of the Metaverse, putting his fingers together in a frame as their leader wiped his blade clean on his thigh) were absolutely infatuated with him.

She’d asked him, through clenched teeth and a Kasumi-worthy smile, if there was someone else, and the faraway look in his eyes was all she needed to know. He didn’t say anything, and she still wasn’t sure if it was for her benefit or for his. He'd hugged her anyway, arms so warm and comforting, and it was easy for Sumire to forget for just that moment that her prince charming wasn't meant to be.

Still, considering what tomorrow would be...

She didn’t want to leave him alone.

It never even really crossed her mind that Akira wouldn’t _be_ alone.

Fishing the hidden key from under the mat (just like Morgana told her it’d be all those many weeks ago when she became an official member of the Phantom Thieves) Sumire let herself into the dark cafe, enjoying the smells of coffee and Sakura-san’s curry simmering away on the stove for the next day. 

It was late, a little after ten, but Sumire was thankful for the soft music—jazz—playing in the background from Akira’s room, covering the light chime of the door opening. It was a song that she knew from the time Akira brought her to Kichijoji’s jazz club, and it made her heart flutter in her chest. 

If she tried hard enough, if she pretended just a little, maybe that memory could pass for a date. 

The shop was dark, but the light from the open bathroom door down from the attic was just enough to not have Sumire knock anything over or possibly wake up Akira. He’d had a rough day, and really… she should have taken the locked door and _**Closed**_ sign as a hint to go home.

She really shouldn’t have been here. Akira was probably asleep, and… 

_I’m not his girlfriend. I can’t just stop by whenever I want._

But she was already here, and she had a gift for him, and really… why was she so nervous? Morgana and Akira both told her that if she ever needed to stop by, day or night, their door was open. 

Even if the door was locked.

She was _invited_. She wasn’t… wasn’t… 

_It can’t be sneaking in when you’ve been told it’s okay._

Sumire pushed a few strands of hair out of her eyes, almost as though the movement would somehow make the hairs on the back of her neck stop standing at attention. 

_Pull yourself together. You’re better than this. What would Kasumi say if she saw you like this? Panicking about a boy you want to—_

Sumire couldn’t even finish the thought without feeling the heat on her cheeks.

Kasumi… she’d been the one the boys loved, the one that all the boys flirted with. She’d been so outspoken, so brave, even just a little bit cheeky. In their old high school, Kasumi had been the social butterfly, flying from group to group without so much as a pause. 

There’d even been a boy, one that looked at Kasumi like her smile was more beautiful than every star in the sky, and Sumire remembered her sister coming home one Sunday and sitting on the edge of her bed, gripping her pillow tight against her chest. 

_“I… Taru and I…” Kasumi had said, burying one cheek against the pillow. The gold pendant Taru had given her for her birthday pressed against her throat like a promise.“We did **it**.” _

Sumire didn’t need to know what _it_ was. She already knew. 

The way Kasumi explained it was so very different than Sumire had expected. Their mother had explained it in terse whispers in the bathroom the day Sumire had gotten her first period. Her teachers had shown fully-clothed pictures in textbooks, explaining nothing but disease and childbirth. And the other gymnasts… they were all so preoccupied with winning to ever think about something like _sex_. 

But Kasumi?

Kasumi was the kind of girl who could hold a gold medal in one hand and have a completely normal life, including a boyfriend and all that entailed, in the other. 

When Sumire confessed to Akira, the coffee mug so hot in her grip she could feel the porcelain begin to crack, for just a moment she’d seen that life for herself. Someone to love her completely and unconditionally, to want to be with her, to make love to her. 

_”What’s it like?”_

_Kasumi smiled, playing with the corners of Sumire’s silver pillow, eyes soft and a blush spreading across her cheeks. “It’s… nice. It hurt at first, but Taru… he was so gentle, Sumi. It’s true love. One day you’ll feel that way, too. I just know it.”_

Sumire wanted that feeling, wanted a man to hold her in his arms as he pushed inside, pressing soft kisses to her lips and her throat, petting her hair as she lost herself in his gentle touches and whispers of love.

That’s what lovers do. That’s what making love was all about. 

Sumire put the cake box down on the counter— three hours of work, but worth every moment if it was able to bring Akira any comfort. It was a nice cake with bitter chocolate ganache topped with strawberries— she helped Kasumi make the same cake for Taru the Valentine’s Day just before…

Even thinking about it made Sumire feel the weight of the world on her shoulders, forcing her to her breaking point. She reached up, playing with Kasumi's gold necklace. It always gave her comfort when she needed it the most.

After days in the Metaverse, most of the team was absolutely exhausted, but it was nothing worse than a particularly rough day of training, and baking had always been a wonderful escape from reality for Sumire. It'd been something she picked up when she was younger, something that Kasumi was never good at but something Sumire had always been better with. It was small, insignificant even, but it was _something_. 

And yet, not even baking had brought her a touch of comfort.

But today had been… 

A hard day. Harder than usual, in fact. They’d gotten to the treasure in Dr. Maruki’s Palace, only for Joker to stare into the abyss with a sad, faraway look that Sumire didn’t even pretend to understand. They couldn’t send out the calling card, not yet, but Akira seemed confident that now that they’d laid forth the path to the treasure, it would be easy for them to get there after giving Dr. Maruki his calling card.

_“He’ll come to us,” Akira said, voice so resolute and calm. Sumire could see something morose in his eyes when he glanced at Akechi-senpai, but it was gone just as quickly as it came._

There had been something in the air, a stagnant pain that Sumire had tried so hard to block out, but… it was impossible. All that knowledge, that the fate of the world rested on their shoulders… of course it would weigh Akira down. He was the one who made the decisions, after all. 

Sumire and the others? All they had to do was follow him like good little foot soldiers. And honestly, Sumire was more than okay with that. She offered as much help as she could give, trying her best to lighten her senpai’s mood, but she wasn’t his girlfriend. She could only give him cake and words of encouragement. 

Idly, Sumire thought about what it must have been like to be Akira Kurusu and all the negativity attached to it. Her life had been hard, yes, but she had never been responsible for the entire world. 

Worse, this wasn’t even the first time. She hadn’t been there when her senpai needed her the most, back in December. She’d already failed him and had wanted nothing more than a do-over she knew she’d never get..

Sumire looked down at the white box, her nail dragging against the cardboard as she undid the red bow at the top. It was from the same spool of ribbon she used for her hair, a memento that he may not have understood, but Sumire _did_. 

And yet… would he notice? Would he care? 

_He wants to stay friends. That’s what’s important. He won’t leave just because he doesn’t love me._

He had come for her that day, hadn't he? Helped her open up to her persona, to Ella. Ella was so strong and beautiful, her wedding dress so perfect against her glass skin. She was nothing like Sumire.

Ella had a prince.

There was a weariness to her now, something that seemed to sink into her very core, and though she was loathe to admit it, she knew she couldn’t blame the Metaverse. 

Why’s she doing this to herself? What good would it do to bring him a cake when… when…

 ** _Bang_**.

Sumire jumped, biting down on her lip to keep herself from screaming. For a moment, the briefest of seconds, she thought that it would be Akira, bounding down the stairs for a glass of water, or Morgana-senpai trying to find a place to rest while Akira busied himself with making lockpicks or bombs. 

She wanted to just leave the cake on the counter and let Akira find it in the morning, but… well. 

Cake always helped her when she was sad, and considering how much fighting they’d done in the Metaverse that day and how endless Akira’s eyes had been, it wasn’t bad to indulge just a little. 

Thankful for her years of gymnastics training, Sumire snuck up the stairs, a “Senpai,” on her lips as she glanced through the bars of the banister. 

The music was louder, now— a cacophony of trumpets and sax and moans shattering the night’s bittersweet melencholy. 

Sumire tightened her grip on the plate in her hands to keep herself from making so much as a squeak. The lights were dim, the sticker stars glowing above their heads in the flickering light of the overhead lightbulb, but it was plenty to see what was going on. 

In the entire year of knowing Akira, Sumire had never seen him so— so… 

_Feral_. 

It wasn’t anything like what Sumire thought it would be like; watching Akira and Akechi on the old futon on top of milk crates wasn’t elegant or beautiful, soft or sweet.

This was angry—vengeful, even. There were teeth and fingernails and Sumire could see Akechi’s hand wrapped in Akira’s hair, yanking him in for a kiss that was more a declaration of war than the act of making love. 

The sheet thrown over their bodies, twisted around their limbs like rope, didn’t give even a modicum of modesty. She could see Akira’s body, his— his penis— sliding into Akechi’s body as Akechi writhed on top of him, nearly shouting in pleasure and pain.

“You— you better not forget,” Akechi said then through gritted teeth as he grabbed hold of Akira’s hands, twisting them above Akira’s head and into the pillow. “Better— not fucking— ah—” 

“I won’t, I won’t.” There was something deep and _broken_ in Akira’s voice, one that made Sumire’s stomach flip. There it was— that deep pain, the one that made Sumire’s entire body ache. She knew that voice, had _used_ that voice a thousand times since Kasumi died. It was the voice that clung heavy to every waking moment, one that she tried and tried and tried to push back. 

But… why?

“But Gor—” 

Whatever Akira was about to say was cut off by Akechi crushing their mouths together, more teeth than lips, more pain than pleasure. 

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ ,” Akechi snarled. “You _promised_.” 

Sumire could feel her fingers quake against the plate. She needed to leave, needed to get as far away, needed to run, needed to… needed to…

This wasn’t for her to see. This wasn’t for her to know. 

This wasn’t for _her_.

“Don’t— god, don’t make me beg.” Akechi’s voice broke then as Akira’s hands broke free, grabbing hold of Akechi’s hair as he pulled him in for another deep, searing kiss. Their chests flush against one another, their whispered words then barely loud enough for Sumire to hear, but she could hear the tremble in Akechi’s voice. “If you don’t— I’ll _kill_ you.”

There was something in Akechi’s voice, though, something so _sad_ , that made tears prickle in Sumire’s eyes. She needed to go, needed to leave, but all she could do was stand there with her cake like an armor, feet glued to the stairs below her. 

“Goro, I lov—” 

“Don’t.” Akechi’s voice wavered just for a moment as their bodies slowed. “No last-minute love confessions. It won’t change anything.” 

“You don’t think I _know_ that?” Akira snapped. That voice— that was Akira’s Joker voice, the voice he used in battle, the voice that commanded attention from Shadows and teammates alike. 

In the year she’d known Akira, she’d never heard him use that tone outside of the Metaverse. 

It was cold, almost _cruel_ , and yet it only made Akechi _laugh_. 

“Imagine what your teammates, what pretty little _Yoshizawa-san_ , would think if they knew you loved a monster so much that you created your own little fantasy world just so I wouldn’t die—” 

“Fuck you.” The venom in Akira’s voice covered up Sumire’s gasp. “You don’t get it, do you?”

Sumire could hear the sneer in Akechi’s next words. “Get that your wildest dream was that I didn’t die? That you could see your killer one last time? That you could fuck me—” 

Akira pushed Akechi off his chest, Akechi’s back hitting into the windowsill. He let out a pained grunt, but even then it only made the manic smile on his mouth, the one Sumire could hear like an echo in his voice, grow wider.

“Oooh, finally growing a spine, are you?” 

“You _do_ get it,” Akira countered with a growl before grabbing hold of Akechi by the throat. “You _bastard_. You fucking _bastard_.” 

Akechi didn’t even try to stop it. In fact, from the near _giggle_ he let out and how his entire body leaned forward, it seemed like… like he _enjoyed_ it. “What a perfect wor—” 

Akira cut him off. Sumire could see his hand tightening around Akechi’s throat. “You’re just as scared as I am. You don’t want to die—” 

“Don’t presume—to tell me—what I want—with **my** life,” Akechi spat as he edged himself close enough to whisper something Sumire didn’t catch, but whatever it was only seemed to enrage Akira further. 

Sumire expected a punch, but all Akira did was yank Akechi down to the bed, forcing him onto his side. He grabbed hold of Akechi’s leg, throwing it up over his own. Sumire watched as the sheet slipped away, nearly every inch of Akechi’s body on full display, just as Akira pushed back inside. 

For a moment, just the flicker of a moment, she thought Akechi saw her, but Akira’s hand still clamped around his throat decided right then to turn his head for another searing kiss, and Sumire knew it was time to go. 

“I _hate_ you,” Akechi growled, but Akira’s laugh was low and deep and darker than the night. 

“I hate you, too.” But there was something in his tone, whispered with reverence that only lovers could have, that shattered what was left of Sumire’s heart.

She’d seen more than enough— more than she should have. 

She wasn’t supposed to be here. 

Slowly, legs jelly and fingers growing numb from clinging to the plate, Sumire made her way back down the stairs, the moans and whines and sweet nothings making her eyes prickle with tears. 

They— they deserved their privacy. 

They deserved their last night together. 

Their goodbyes. 

She was quick in putting the cake back in the box, tying the ribbon with shaking fingers.

It was better to not leave the cake there, Sumire decided as she loaded it back into her arms, crossing the cafe with unsure, shaking steps. She could hear Akira and Akechi’s moans growing louder, the frantic thuds and bangs of the milk crates against the wall, and the chant of “Goro” that sounded like a prayer falling from broken lips. 

Somehow, Sumire managed to lock the door and slide the key back under the door, though she was unable to stop herself from looking up into Akira’s window one last time, unsure of what she wanted to see reflected back. The windows were fogged, the light barely peeking through, but there wasn’t a trace of the two boys inside.

It was for the best.

By the time she got to the train station, her tears were flowing freely. Her hands felt gummy, chocolate stuck between her fingers, and she wiped them uselessly on her black tights. 

When she got home, Sumire fell into her bed without so much as a word. It wasn’t the first time that Sumire had forced herself to sleep through her tears. 

She knew she couldn’t just stay home tomorrow, to wallow in her pain. There was too much riding on this, on her, on— 

On them.

The next day passed like a blur, but the moment they arrived in Dr. Maruki’s Palace it was so easy to slip on her mask, to hide from everything and everyone. She made sure to keep her distance from both Akira and Akechi, the sights and sounds of the Leblanc attic burned into her brain.

It was only in the last moment, just before they reached _utopia_ that Akira pulled them all into a safe room, giving them the chance to refuel and heal up before going up the tree, guns blazing, that Sumire looked at either Akira or Akechi.

She regretted it immediately. 

Akira’s eyes were red and puffy through his mask, mouth a thin line. He almost passed as stone, unfeeling and cold. In that moment he was nothing but Joker, nothing but their leader.

When he moved his head to the side Sumire caught a glimpse of his throat, shattering the illusion. 

Sumire swallowed, hard. 

The bruise— it was a mark of dominance, of ownership, of—

Not love. That was a mark of _hate_ and _loathing_ and… and…

Sumire looked away, immediately wishing she hadn’t.

She stared at her shoes, willing her body to relax, until Akira told them it was time to head out. 

That was her first mistake. 

Her second, though?

Her second was much more obvious. 

Akechi looked almost _smug_ as he whispered a, “Yoshizawa-san, a word?” just as she got to the door. 

Sumire didn’t want a word with Akechi, but what else could she do? What else could she _say_? 

“Go— Akechi,” Akira began, but Akechi only shook his head. 

“It’ll be just a moment, I promise.” Akira stood at the doorway, and for the first time since Sumire met Akira, he had no witty retort or word of comfort. Instead, Akira sighed and nodded, letting the safe room door close without a word.

“Yes, Akechi-senpai?” 

Akechi mimicked her words as he stepped in front of the door, blocking her exit. There was something in the air, even if Akechi didn’t even open his mouth.

The silence and the unspoken laughter tore through Sumire’s guts as she stared at everywhere— _anywhere_ —but where she really wanted to look.

This wasn’t her place, either.

“Yoshizawa-san,” Akechi began, voice a sing-song, “has anyone ever told you that it’s rude to eavesdrop?” Akechi’s words were almost conversational, voice soft and lilting, just like he sounded on the television. It was nothing like how he sounded in battle, screaming until his voice went hoarse. It was nothing like the night bef—

“Akechi-senpai, I— I don’t—” 

“Don’t play the dumb act with me.” His voice was still that soft, pleasant voice, but just under there were knives and poison and Sumire knew she’d been cut when she _flinched_. “Akira may not see it, but _**I do**._” 

Sumire bit down on the inside of her cheek, willing her fists to not clench tighter than her jaw already was. 

“Sweet little Yoshizawa-san, so broken and needy,” Akechi continued as he reached up to move her mask, letting his thumb rub under her cheek. “Unable to accept that she’s nothing but a shallow replacement, always a silver medal.”

Sumire was crying. She hadn’t even noticed until Akechi rubbed it away, lifting his thumb to his mouth to taste her tears. He smiled around the leather before leaning in close enough to whisper into the shell of her ear, hand brushing against her hair.

Akechi’s eyes were like blood on asphalt, and all Sumire could do was stare into their unending depths. “No matter what you may think, you’ll never have him. Not the way I do. Do you understand me?” 

“I—”

Akechi reached up, tugging her ribbon. Her hair spilled down around her shoulders, limp and dull, another reminder that she was just as broken as Akechi said she was. 

She wasn’t Kasumi. Akira had _liked_ Kasumi, had enjoyed her company as Kasumi, maybe… maybe he could have loved Kasumi. 

Akechi was right. 

“I… I know.” 

Akechi held the ribbon between his fingers for Sumire to take, but when she didn’t reach out he let it fall through his fingers. It reminded her of the cherry blossoms blooming and dying. 

Their lives were short, too. 

Akechi turned away from her, reaching for the door. His hand lingered on the knob for a moment before he turned around, an inquisitive smile crossing his lips. “One last thing— was it cake? Or a chocolate tart?” 

Sumire blinked, feeling the tears hot against her eyelashes and cheeks, searing against her skin. “Wh— what?” 

“You left fingerprints on the door, though had you truly been kind you would have left it. It would have been a delicious final meal.” With a flourish, Akechi slammed the door open, gesturing for her to leave. A glint of gold caught her eye, but Sumire didn't look any closer.

She'd seen enough.

“Tell _Akira-senpai_ I need a word.” 

She couldn’t look Akira in the eye, but then again, Akira couldn’t look her in the eye, either. 

When they came back, lips bruised and hair mussed, Akira wiped at his face with the back of his glove until Akira was gone and only Joker remained. 

“Let’s do this.”

* * *

Sumire returned home in the morning, staring at a room littered with the glint of a hundred silver medals and a lone chocolate cake on the edge of her desk. 

She grabbed the ribbon and slammed the box into her trophy case, the silence of the morning shattered by the sound of breaking glass and her screams. 

Falling to her knees, Sumire let out a sob. Her hands groped for Kasumi's necklace, but there was nothing. 

Gold wasn't for her, after all.

_"One day you'll find your prince charming and all your dreams will come true, Sumire. You'll be the only person he can think of."_

Sumire could never compete—

Even against the dead.

  
  



End file.
